Kathryn Fox: Blood Born

Natasha made a good point. The defense team took turns grilling her for a day and a half on the stand. To her credit, the teenager answered every question, no matter how demeaning or traumatic to recall.

It was only after the cross-examination that a female juror commented that she had believed from the start the boys on trial were good-looking and could have slept with any girl they wanted so would never need to commit rape. Another juror informed the presiding judge, who immediately called a mistrial.

The result devastated Giverny and her family. The worst part was having to go through the trauma all over again.

The prosecutor softened, “We can’t let bastards like these get away with what they did to Giverny, and the other women who were too scared to come forward and testify against them. We owe Giverny that much.”

Anya sipped her soup and studied the woman across the table. Natasha’s second glass of wine arrived and disappeared quickly.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to Giverny,” Anya offered, concerned that Natasha might blame herself for the girl’s suicide-if that’s what it was. She herself felt more responsible than anyone, especially after failing to resuscitate Giverny. No amount of consoling could take that feeling away.

“Don’t be too sure about that. Last week she said she was scared that she couldn’t face the stand again, and I threatened to charge her with contempt.”

Anya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The last thing Giverny needed was legal threats from the woman responsible for bringing her case to justice.

“Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but this wasn’t just about Giverny Hart. Rightly or wrongly, I represent society, not individuals, and those bastards are a real danger to every woman out there, including you and me.” She stuck her fork into some salad as another glass of wine arrived.

Although Natasha was claiming the moral high ground, her aggressive manner and heavy drinking suggested she did feel guilty about Giverny. Anya assumed she had heard about the paint slur in the garage and the possibility of a staged suicide, but a day spent in legal arguments might mean she hadn’t been fully informed.

“I assume you’ve been told the police are treating this as a suspicious death?”

The prosecutor took a gulp of wine. “I was in court and received the message about her being found but unable to be revived. I couldn’t face going back to the office so I didn’t get many more details, apart from the paint scrawls in the garage.”

“There’s not much more I can tell you until after the post-mortem. Her left index finger was trapped underneath the cord when we found her. There were no signs of a struggle, though.”

“So Giverny tried to stop it strangling her.” She pushed the bread plate to the side and wiped some crumbs off the table. “What else? Anything.”

“She wasn’t dressed up, no makeup. Come to think of it, she didn’t really look like she had dressed for court.”

“Not wearing makeup is no surprise. We talked about it because I thought it was better if she appeared her age in court. She said it wasn’t a problem because she didn’t like it anyway. Who’s working the homicide angle?”

Anya had seen only Hayden Richards at the scene. “Not sure yet.”

The prosecutor began dialing her mobile phone. “Homicide, thanks…Natasha Ryder. Who’s working the Hart case from today? Good. I’ll need the forensics ASAP and I want to know exactly where each and every other member of that family and their closest friends were last night and this morning.”

Anya was relieved by this positive turn-around in the case, even though she still felt inadequate about what had happened at the house.

Natasha hung up. “Kate Farrer’s in charge. Do you know her?”

Anya knew the detective well. They had become friends through a number of cases, each sharing a mutual respect for the other’s work. Having been back from overseas for less than two days, there hadn’t been the opportunity to catch up. That was something she would do tomorrow or the next day when the jetlag and fever had abated.

“Kate’s very professional. Thorough and right down the line,” Anya said.

“Good. That’s what I’ve heard.” Natasha grabbed her bag and stood just as the waiter arrived with her steak. Her phone buzzed and she checked the message.

“I’ve got work to do. Can I have a doggy bag for my meal?” The waiter nodded and collected her plate. “Dinner’s on me. I’ll take care of it at the bar.” She took a few steps before turning back.

“And thanks for what you did to try to save her today. She was a nice kid. What really gets me is that it wasn’t enough for those bastards to abduct and rape her. Even though the four who did it were in jail, somehow they made damn sure she wouldn’t testify against them again.”

Anya Crichton shuffled down stairs inher Ugg boots and thick cotton gown. The house was still in darkness, but once she was awake there was no point staying in bed. All she could think about were the facial hemorrhages she may or may not have missed.

The events of the last few months now felt like a blur. Working on cases in New York and Mediterranean Europe had been exhilarating and exhausting. Flight delays had meant there had been no time to catch her breath before preparing for the Harbourn trial. At least she’d managed one day in Disneyland with Ben and Martin, seeing her son delight in meeting Mickey Mouse and begging to do the Pirates of the Caribbean ride again. In truth, it was a toss-up as to who enjoyed it more, Ben or his regressed, childlike parents. And Martin had been so affable, she’d almost remembered what had attracted her to him so many years ago-until the need for them to be organized brought his aversion to responsibility to the fore once again.

She checked for messages and updates from the various people she had worked with while away. A couple wished her safe travels, but nothing else.

Thankfully, Elaine had cleared the diary for the trial appearances and so Anya was free to rest and try to shake off the fever and chest infection. If she were being honest, it was what her body craved. Working overseas had challenged her in many ways, and now she needed a day to recuperate, stock up on some fresh fruit and vegetables and get back into a routine.

She filled the kettle, switched it on at the powerpoint, and wondered whether to catch up on paperwork or try to put together the bookcase for Benjamin’s room. He would be back next week and she hoped to have it completed by then as a surprise for his access visit. Besides, the wooden planks supported by bricks were bowing under the weight of his Mr. Men collection and beginner readers. The thought of assembling prefab furniture was a little daunting, though. It might be better for her health to go for a gentle walk to the greengrocer instead.

Pulling the milk from the fridge, she noticed some fresh vegetables in the chilling drawer and a home-cooked lasagna on the shelf, courtesy of Elaine.

Her secretary was always quick to criticize her eating habits-going weeks without having “proper food,” the stuff that was unprocessed and free of every preservative and artificial coloring known to man.

A dedicated foodie, Elaine didn’t appreciate that eating wasn’t high on Anya’s agenda. It provided sustenance and energy, but didn’t have to be consumed with clockwork regularity or even much attention.

That didn’t matter now, the lasagna was a mouth-watering treat and Anya was touched by Elaine’s thoughtfulness.

The kettle steamed the window and she felt a shiver. As she pulled her gown tighter, the phone pierced the quiet.